Withering
by Waking Hyde
Summary: Ohtori did not want to be alone, but some things could not be changed. Silver pair for Valentine's Day, deathfic.


Stark whiteness closed in on him, it surrounded him, engulfed him. Even the window could only mirror the white, clouded sky from outside, barely differing from the white windowsills and the equally light walls. The curtains were white, door was white, every single piece of furniture within the pristine room were white; even the machinery surrounding the bed was colored a plain, dull white.

Only two things in the room contrasted the light color; the small figure on the bed, and the person sitting next to him. However, Ohtori did not think Shishido's small, fragile form made much of a contrast. Pale face, blanket pulled up to cover a withered torso clad in hospital gown, only his dark hair separated him from the soft bed he was laid on. A breathing respirator hissed softly, repeatedly, providing the only sound in the room aside from a continuous beeping from the heart monitor.

A broken sigh from Ohtori interrupted the painful melody for the first time in a long while. It was a struggle, every day was a struggle, to survive, persist and keep going. Every day, Shishido faded more into the bed, and every day, he took a piece of Ohtori with him.

Shishido was dying. Shishido was dying, and they both knew it. They both knew, but neither would admit it. At least, none of them would voice the thought out loud. Maybe then, it would become true.

Ohtori stopped by after school every day, and often spent several hours in the weekends. In the beginning, he had brought Shishido's homework, and they had joked, fooled around, ignored their surroundings and kept going just like they usually would. And Ohtori would be free to kiss his Shishido-senpai, just light, affectionate touches of chapped and soft lips meeting. He would pour all his love into those short, but sweet moments, all his wishes and faith would be expressed then, and his emotions would be mirrored in Shishido's eyes. Teasingly, Shisihido would pull him down again as he moved back, he would fist his hand in Ohtori's shirt and violently pull him back so that they were only inches apart. He would smirk, lick his lips and complain that, really, should he not be getting more, as he was such a poor, poor patient? And Ohtori would never deny his Shishido-senpai anything, so much to his shame, he would oblige and somehow indulge Shishido in a full make-out session on the hospital bed. Right then, things were not as bad as they could have been.

But eventually, the visits grew duller, just like the medications increased. Pills, drugs, injections, they were all pumped into the bedridden boy to keep him alive, if only a little longer. Ohtori soon stopped bringing his homework to Shishido. There was really no use for them anymore, they had to face it, and it took too much extensive energy Shishido could not afford to lose. It was still a decision that was hard to make, because everyone knew what the implications meant.

Over time, the jokes died down as well. When Ohtori used to tell stories about their friends, school, gossip and tennis, Shishido would comment and bark out, like he usually did, complaining about how boring it was to lie in bed all day while everyone else got to live their lives. He missed his friends, who did not visit as frequently as Ohtori, he missed going out and having fun, and he missed tennis. He used to be an elite player, infamous for his stamina and determination; now, he could barely take a walk to the bathroom by himself. It pained Ohtori, but it pained Shishido more. He used to be a pride being, but now he was reduced to nothing. He was withering, but nothing could help him regain his vitality, and he knew as well as anyone, that it was only a question of time before the inevitable happened.

And then, when Ohtori recounted the everyday events of life to him, he would only smile weakly, sadly, brokenly, because he knew he would never be a part of it anymore. He no longer had the strength to pretend either. He no longer had the strength to move from his bed. He no longer had the energy to reply eagerly to Ohtori's feather soft kisses.

Ohtori recalled the date he knew his Shishido would die, the day he knew for sure that nothing could help him. It was not the day Shishido collapsed at training and was brought to the hospital in an ambulance, and it was not the day the older told him about his diagnosis. No, Ohtori had thought, Ohtori had known, that no matter what anyone else said, Shishido would be fine, he would pull through anything. Because he was Shishido-senpai; and anything else was unthinkable.

But the day Shishido had looked at him, so defeated and broken, tears constantly glistening in his eyes, not even putting up a fight when the nurses offered him a wheelchair, that was when he realized. Shishido had given up, and Shishido would die. The thought alone tore him apart.

The deterioration, which had been so slow to begin with, suddenly seemed to speed up, and it came to a point when Shishido could not even lift his hand alone. But he would not become frustrated; he would just stare at his hand, as if begging, and not demanding, it to lift. It never did. And Shishido would do nothing but sigh in defeat.

Ohtori would take the opportunity to take Shishido's limp hand in his own, and lift it to his lips, kissing the dry knuckles gently. A weak compensation it was, but it was all Ohtori could do. He would smile, encouragingly, and reassure his Shishido-senpai that it was okay, everything would be okay.

But it had been a long time since either of them really believed those words.

Ohtori arrived to the hospital one day with to the sound of alarms beeping and nurses and doctors running in and out of Shishido's room. He had panicked, he had first thought that no, it was not possible, not yet, not ever, he needed his Shishido-senpai. Maybe he was at the wrong room, mistaken the floors, anything. But he had walked this very same path too many times by now to be wrong.

What would he do, if Shishido really died? He had tried to mentally prepare himself for the idea, the concept, because he knew he would be faced with it soon enough.

And yet, he could not bear the thought.

He had waited in Shishido's room, crouched by the window, completely still with his arms around his legs, embracing himself as a poor replacement for the strong, muscular arms that no longer had the strength to do so. How many times had Shishido held him like that, comforted him with gruff words and encouraging promises. So many times, and yet, Ohtori could barely remember what it felt like anymore.

Shishido was rolled back later that night, completely still, completely pale, and with a new addition to the growing visible signs of his withering; a breathing mask was strapped firmly over hollow cheekbones, fogging slightly, slowly, as the small boy breathed in and out.

Ohtori had laid by his side that night, he had cried for him, and he had held the precious, fragile figure closely. He knew it was his time to be the strong one, and yet, he did not know how to do so. Not to Shishido, not without Shishido.

But somehow, tomorrow came, and Ohtori was forced to go on with his life nonetheless. He still visited Shishido. Every day, several hours at a time. His parents were worried, his friends asked questions, but he paid none of them any heed. Only one thing was important.

Shishido-senpai.

He had to be with his Shishido-senpai, every last minute of his Shishido-senpai's limited time. He could not leave him alone, not anymore; he was scared, terrified, that if he was not there to take care of the remnants of his Shishido-senpai, then he would surely fall apart before he even had the time to blink.

Shishido himself spent most of the time sleeping, either by sheer exhaustion or in a drug-induced haze, free from pain and free from torment, if only for a little while. Every waking moment was a struggle, in the end. He had long since wasted to nothing, he could do nothing, he could not even breathe. Ohtori was too kind to take care of him, even in a state like this, and he pitied the boy for his kind heart.

He pitied him, but Shishido was still eternally grateful. Even though he knew what was about to become his fate, he also knew that he would long since be buried six feet beneath if it was not for Ohtori. Ohtori kept him going, if only a little longer. He was in constant pain, he could do nothing, and he was trapped in a body that had betrayed him while he watched those around him succumb to their own sorrow as they took in his depressing figure.

Why did he take a small comfort in the fact that he was still breathing, even if it was only artificial? The life he had now was no life, even in his drugged, tired mind he knew that. All he did was cause suffering to those around him, and himself. Would it not have been better to be dead already?

His mind screamed it at him. Tell them to unplug, it said, just give up and save everyone the torment.

But his heart was still, through his confusion, clinging to life for unknown reasons.

No, that was a lie. He knew why.

Ohtori.

Shishido knew he inflicted so much pain on his beloved Ohtori. By now, the younger had given up his life to watch Shishido loose his own, and that was no more of an existence than the one Shishido led. Ohtori was always too affectionate, too kind, too loving. For that, he was now suffering.

Even though Shishido thought it selfish of him to keep clinging to life, he could not leave Ohtori like this. He could not touch the other boy of his own free will, he could not kiss him, he could barely speak, and he could most certainly not bring any joy to Ohtori. And he knew that would never improve. He could not find the strength to do anything, not even the strength to put Ohtori out of his misery.

He was too weak. Defeated. Dead.

"Choutarou," he croaked out one day, a coarse whisper barely making its way out of his breathing mask. Ohtori had looked up at him then, his eyes large and hopeful as they always were whenever Shishido did anything but blink at him. It was a rarer and rarer occurrence nowadays.

"Choutarou," he repeated, pulling energy from nowhere to keep his voice going as he eyed the younger boy in question apologetically. "I'm sorry."

Ohtori only shook his head, and gave a slight smile. It was not a happy smile, but one usually accompanied by tears. If only Ohtori had anymore tears to shed.

"Don't be, Ryou," he said gently, squeezing the limp hand in his lightly. They had already had this discussion too many times; Shishido would apologize for being weak, and Ohtori would assure him that it was okay, it was not his fault. His heart broke every time. "It's okay. It's not your fault."

Shishido would have huffed, snorted, made any sort of indignant sound. But he had learned to put such reactions aside, as they were just simply not possible for him to execute anymore.

"M-mask…" He tried instead, pleading eyes boring into Ohtori's soul. He complied. Carefully pulling the mask from the delicate, cold skin, Ohtori had to close his eyes as Shishido took a few seconds to regain his breath, gasps hauntingly loud in the quiet room before they finally settled into a shallow, harsh breathing rhythm.

Shishido hated the mask. It was a representation of everything, a physical manifestation of everything that was wrong in his life at the moment, which was nothing short of everything. He hated how he was not able to perform even such an easy task as breathing without it, he hated how it smelled of hospital, and he hated how it reminded him of suffering.

"Choutarou…" Shishido repeated once more, and Ohtori nodded in encouragement. He would not speak, would not interrupt Shishido in any way, ere he lost whatever energy he had conjured to be able to speak again. "I'm sorry to have you in here… On your birthday, and.. Valentine's Day…"

"It's okay, Ryou," Ohtori replied quickly, daring to give a response he knew Shishido needed. "I don't mind. I just want to be with you, and you're here."

Truth to be told, he had felt a pang when he got up and knew it to be February 14th. One year ago, on this very day, Shishido had taken him out to dinner, blushing and muttering all the while, but with the best intentions. Everything had been fine, he had smiled, and Shishido had laughed, and nothing was wrong.

He would never have imagined the next year to be like this.

Shishido looked so heartbroken at his reply, he almost regretted saying it. But it was the truth, and while it was a response Shishido dreaded hearing, it was also one he needed as a confirmation.

"You shouldn't be here," Shishido said weakly, never believing the words himself. Yes. Ohtori needed to be here.

"I want to," Ohtori said quietly, but firmly. It was fortunate that his eyes were still too dry.

"Shouldn't be stuck with an invalid…" The bitterness shone from his words like a beacon in the night, but Ohtori still tried his best to ignore it. He would not acknowledge the message behind.

"It doesn't matter, Ryou," he said gently and cupped the brunette's skinny and foreign cheek. "Stop talking nonsense. I won't leave you, not today or ever. Save your energy for something more worthy of your concern."

A year ago, Shishido would have made a snide comment or snarky joke that he was like a concerned housewife. He would have thrown an arm around Ohtori's shoulder, grinning, bouncing, and Ohtori would have laughed with him.

Ohtori had almost forgotten that feeling.

"I can't do anything about you, can I…" It was spoken so quietly, but Ohtori knew he was supposed to hear it. Shishido would not speak something he was not meant to hear. Shishido only spoke to Ohtori, after all. "But it still won't stop me from… Feeling bad."

"Sometimes, you can't help it if bad things happen." Ohtori's hand moved over slightly to stroke faded, brown hair. "Sometimes, bad things happen to good people, and it's not fair, but… You can't do anything about it. And it's most certainly not the victim's fault."

"You're more victim than I am, Chouta," Shishido would have chuckled. "But… Happy birthday. I love you."

"I love you too, Ryou." Ohtori quietly leant down to place a very gentle, very sweet peck on Shishido's lips, and even though Shishido was unable to respond, he knew he would. "Now, let's put that mask back on. I'm sorry…"

"Wait!" Shishido's desperate plea halted Ohtori in his progress, and he looked back to the person on the bed. Large eyes, more prominent due to the sunken cheeks and pale complexion of his skins, stared at him, and Ohtori had to remind himself that he did not have any more tears to shed.

"I'm… I still…" Shishido started uncertainly before he let out a soft sigh. His breaths were more labored now, his voice weaker, and Ohtori knew he was losing strength, quickly. "I'm glad your last birthday was so great. And even… Even if the previous year has been hard, I'm glad… And thankful… That you stayed with me, even today..."

Ohtori just nodded, and stayed silent, holding Shishido's hand in reassurance.

"Especially today, maybe. And Chouta…" Ohtori was most certainly disturbed to see clear, crystal tears escaping from those dark orbs, trailing down cold skin slowly, tauntingly. "I'm sorry I won't be here next year."

It was the first vocalization of what was about to happen. None of them had ever spoken it so directly before, they had always ever skirted around the issue, because none of them would admit it, make it real. Ohtori would not admit that Shishido would be dead, and Shishido would not admit that Ohtori would be alone.

It was like a spell breaking, but at the same time, it was like it had just been cast; weeks, months of pretense and ignorance were suddenly all brought back again, reality was hovering over their shoulders, and Ohtori could not stand it.

Shishido would die.

But Shishido could not die.

"I already told you to stop talking nonsense, Ryou," Ohtori said gently, attempting to smile, attempted to pull the corners of his mouth slightly upwards to something that would be akin to a reassuring expression. He was sure he failed. "We'll be together next year, like always."

Shishido knew Ohtori was lying, he was deluding them both, but mostly himself. Although he knew that the younger did not believe his own words, though he desperately wanted them to be true. But he could not convince himself. Shishido did not protest this time, but only looked at Ohtori sadly as he fiddled with the hated breathing mask.

Ohtori was well aware of the fact that his eyes had long since run empty, that the only water left was used to preserve his eyeballs. He guessed his eyeballs had to be pretty bad off, then; water droplets fell to his hands, on Shishido's hospital sheets, staining the pristine white, and they were obviously falling from his own eyes. It was clear from the distinct wet feeling around his cheeks, and somehow, he could not find the will or energy to even attempt to hide it from Shishido. It was not like he would not know, anyways.

It was only Shishido's increasingly loud and struggling breathing that called his attention. He replaced the mask gently over the delicate face with shaky hands, hating himself for it. Shishido's tears could have stopped, but the tracks after the, was not erased, and Ohtori quickly brought his thumb to swipe over them. If he could just blame the redness in Shishido's eyes on medication, exhaustion, sleepiness, then he could ignore it, he could pretend nothing was out of the ordinary.

Shishido, however, was still painful aware of the continuously flowing water from Ohtori's brown, chocolate warm orbs.

He fell asleep one day in early April, and Shishido never woke again.


End file.
